


looking for a saw

by Lua



Series: on the edge of nobody's empire [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn, heavily focused on lydia, s5B canon divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-07-16 19:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7282018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lua/pseuds/Lua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia knows they should be doing something to help each other. Talking is hard. Moving on is hard.<br/>They don't have anyone else.</p><p> </p><p>"The falling of the whole empire, it's here to hold you<br/>Rolling out and haunted till it sinks"<br/>Empire Ants - Gorillaz</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

Stuck in a hotel, on the Mexican side of the border, Lydia felt lonely.

It wasn’t a lack of physical company. Stiles had claimed one of the chairs a couple days earlier, when they had decided on a hotel near Revolucion Avenue, a decision made until they had sorted out things enough to decide where to go. He had made himself comfortable among energy drinks and coffee cups Peter would fetch for him now and then as if it wasn’t an excuse to get out of their room because staying indoors made the werewolf too restless. It was an excuse from both sides; Stiles rarely finished the requested beverages.

As things were, they barely talked.

They all refused to talk. She thought it was fear. Trauma even. But as the days went by, Lydia became convinced it was their way of keeping an uneasy truce after the full moon. None of them wanted to pick on wounds that were still healing. It was difficult for them to do more than offer small pieces of their stories at the time. The wounds were too fresh and no one wanted to go prying them open, making them bleed and forcing each other into defensive positions again.

And Lydia felt lonely.

Looking around their hotel room, it was a little surprising that even after a week, it didn’t feel like home in the slightest. She missed her house. She missed her parents, and she knew the small annoyances of dealing with them seemed smaller as the days went by. Stiles had told Lydia about how they had tried to persuade her mother; how his father had tried to scare her into getting Lydia out of that hellhole they called a hospital, and how she couldn’t possibly have had the time to save her daughter. He sounded apologetic and Lydia didn’t care for it.

The banshee wondered if her mother was there the night Eichen House burned down. She wished she could talk to someone about her feelings.

Her mother was gone.

Her mother was gone, but so was Stiles’ father and Peter’s whole family. No one was making it a contest of who had it worse, but the boundaries had been set. They were on their own to lick these painful wounds.

Lydia missed Allison; she still did. She pushed the green duvet off the bed. It matched the chair Stiles was sitting on, obsessively researching supernatural creatures and myths coming from Central and South America. Lydia sat down and crossed her legs, running her fingers through her hair. Her mother had been careful with her in those first few weeks after Allison died, delicately suggesting they could find someone for Lydia to talk to after the funeral and implying Lydia would make plenty of other friends and could have plenty of meds to numb the pain. Her mother assured her that it would all be okay. And now she was dead, too.

She missed Parrish, the unexpected friend with who she was finally able to talk. She stayed silent for some time, listening to Stiles' typing, and trying to not let her power paint a too-precise picture of deaths she couldn't change anymore. Lydia wished she had had more time to ask Meredith. That had been something she felt there was room to share and so she had told Stiles and Peter that Meredith taught her things.

Lydia missed the easiness of talking to Parrish. She had felt close to him during all those months of research and their supernatural connection would always come second in her mind. They had been able to talk and she had been able to open up about things that had been hurting her for so long; things that had been uncomfortable to say to anyone else because Lydia wasn't as selfish and uncaring as she presented herself as being. She could see the signs of grief in every person of their little group; she could see the denial, the avoidance. And when everything happened and Derek was gone, and Scott got involved, and there were assassins coming for them, Lydia knew all too well it was not the time to talk about how they were all coping.

She knew none of them had been to see her mother as the guidance counselor. Lydia wondered how much of that mistrust, how much of their need to keep the loss hidden was a consequence of Morrell playing them. Lydia took a deep breath and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

Now Lydia had a growing list of dead people to miss and she missed her life.

All of them realized rather quickly that not being alone and not being lonely were worlds apart and, in some way, Lydia resented both Stiles and Peter for offering her company without easing her loneliness. She smiled; it reminded her of something she read somewhere.

Stiles glanced up from his laptop, keeping his eyes on Lydia for a moment. She didn’t smile much these days. He suspected none of them did.

It had been surprisingly easy for them to cross the border, but now, they were all too aware they would need money, if not actual documentation. Their plan had all kinds of flaws, and the more Stiles thought about it, the more it annoyed him. It was the reason Stiles had claimed the green chair under the tv as soon as their silence had started making things uncomfortable. Lydia wrinkled her nose in distaste when he started hoarding empty cans of energy drinks and plastic cups with gas station coffee, but Peter’s anxiety was too much. None of them had been talking and Stiles threw himself into binge researching every single threat they could encounter as they moved south.

It was easier.

It was either that or pretend everything was fine. And when they crossed the border and arrived in Mexico, as free from Beacon Hills as they would ever be, and yet terribly confused with that freedom, that had been an option.

“We should go out for Mexican food,” Stiles suggested quietly, skim-reading a page about weird Latin folklore he didn’t care about, except if it was real, those creatures could kill him, and that made sense of all the research.

Lydia tilted her head, giving Stiles a thoughtful look. “Maybe,” she answered after some time as if it required careful planning and consideration. It did.

The banshee leaned on the bed so she could reach her new phone on the bedside table, where it was resting with the screen facing down since she had put it there. The first thing Stiles had decided to figure out for them was what they should do to have their phones working. It wasn’t so much the case that he was the only one who could figure it out as it was that neither Lydia nor Peter were bothered enough to do it. Lydia had gathered halfway through the week that Stiles didn't need Peter's money, and she was sure Peter had caught up with that, too. She wondered how much time had passed before Stiles had decided to leave, and the moment he found them in Eichen House. There was too much planning in Stiles' actions for it to be an impromptu decision like he kept implying.

No one goes checking someone out of mental institutions with an escape plan, a bag full of clothes, and stolen money without the actual planning. The money they got from Katashi never made its way back into Beacon Hills after they’d tried to buy the Calaveras’ cooperation. Lydia figured some of the money from the Benefactor got lost and found its way into Stiles’ possession, although, she didn’t ask.

“It will be a date,” he said and closed his laptop for the first time in two or three days.

Lydia rolled her eyes but didn’t refuse. She stared down at her phone for a few seconds, before lighting up the screen. Twelve messages, all of them from Peter.

Peter had found the hotel far away enough from the noise of Revolucion Avenue, so it wouldn’t be an issue for both Lydia and Stiles, but it was still close enough he could constantly hear the life of the city just outside the walls of the room. Peter had taken to running errands for them, and no one had mentioned how he got more and more restless whenever he stayed in the room for too long. It took only a day for the pacing to start getting on everyone’s nerves, and, whenever the werewolf’s restlessness began to show, Lydia’d sigh in annoyance. That was his warning.

By now, Peter would either leave on his own or, eventually, Stiles would kick him out like on those first few nights. It was Lydia flinching whenever Stiles yelled that had Peter timing his anxiety levels so he could get out of their room before he felt like he had to fight his way out of the small space.

He took to texting. Lydia didn’t mind, and mostly it was about things so common that she started welcoming the texts as comforting. The silence between them was getting heavier by the day. It was obvious to Lydia that their denial could only take them so far. As the days passed and the distance grew, their fears and anxieties grew, too. It was difficult to take the first steps needed to keep it from happening and no one wanted to reopen wounds that barely started healing.

Peter wouldn't ask. It was a role that he was given to play and as it was, catering to their needs by playing sugar daddy was something the werewolf could do. At least until he put his mind back together. Stiles wouldn’t ask. He had thrown himself into too much research as if they needed to know everything before someone died. It made her nervous as she waited for his breakdown. Lydia considered asking, demanding, pressing for details about Beacon Hills, about the Dread Doctors about the dead chimeras and Theo and Malia, Kira, Scott, Parrish. Lydia actually missed Parrish.

She sighed and got up.

“It’d be good to get out once in a while,” Stiles shrugged, justifying his invitation. “It doesn’t have to be a date.”

“It is one now,” Lydia scoffed, heading to the bathroom to brush her hair. She closed the door of the bathroom behind her and checked the texts from Peter. “Peter is buying souvenirs,” she told Stiles through the door. “A night outside as tourists wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

There was no reply but, as she brushed her hair, she could hear Stiles fumbling with the empty cans. She wondered if he missed his parents telling him to clean the room.

Lydia put the hairbrush down on the sink counter and stared at her own reflection in the mirror. The haunted look in her eyes was slowly easing away. Little by little, she was putting more and more distance between herself and Eichen House. Lydia traced the bag under her right eye with the tip of her finger. She was lacking any makeup and her hair hadn’t been styled in quite some time, but she looked so…normal.

Lydia ran her fingers through her hair, pulling the locks away to see the patch of new hair growing there. It was a reminder of what could’ve been. It was a reminder that she shouldn’t let herself forget Eichen even if she should let herself heal.

Lydia couldn't bring herself to relax. This hotel room, on the Mexican side of the border, already quite far away from Beacon Hills wasn't as curative as it was supposed to be.


	2. ii

Lydia watched the tourists pass on the sidewalk on the other side of the street as they waited for their meal. A family with a young child was discussing their itinerary a table away from them. She glanced at Stiles as he watched the cars with an empty gaze.

They were on the second floor of a restaurant that seemed used to tourists coming and going. It had been a common understanding to not call attention to themselves and their appearance was enough to raise flags. Lydia’s phone vibrated with another text from Peter; she didn’t check it.

“Everybody sounds happy,” she said with a smile that she hadn’t worn in a long time. Lydia fell High School pulling her back.

Stiles looked at her and she made an effort to direct her smile at him, arching her eyebrows in a silent demand of reciprocity. There was something in Stiles’ eyes that she couldn’t quite decipher but he didn’t try to fight her on their act.

The family nearby was loud.

Lydia looked at the fountain behind herself and her eyes passed by their table; she smiled at the child. She didn’t like this place.

“Should we take a picture?” Stiles suggested, making a scene of almost dropping his phone. “A vacation memory,” he declared and waited until she leaned closer, so the street would appear in the picture. “Let’s send it home.”

Lydia felt like laughing. Peter was all they still had of home; the alias was fitting and, still, so very heartbreaking.

“Perhaps we should skip the meal and just drink,” she suggested.

“O-ho, an adventurous side of Ms. Martin,” Stiles teased and watched her. “For real?”

Lydia considered it for a moment before nodding. They were dragging ghosts along, they had nothing to lose; a hangover would still be the least of their problems in the morning.

They didn’t skip the meal in the end because they were already there, with their order already placed, but they knew where they were going next. Stiles had brought more than enough money with him for them to find a bar that accepted US money – which Lydia assured him wouldn’t be as difficult as he excepted – and get wasted. Peter would keep a one-sided conversation with Lydia and Lydia would get drunk because she got nothing anymore.

Stiles checked his phone when they were on the taxi, headed to another place with no loud families and no children. It was odd to her that he had been texting Peter all along when they seemed so strange to each other.

“This isn’t exactly the date I imagined,” Stiles confessed to her and waved both hands as if it explained it all. “You know? That and I always pictured TJ with Scott in it.”

Lydia understood what he meant, but she didn’t reply. She smiled politely at the driver and paid for the ride in pesos that Peter had exchanged in one of his errands. She remembered coming to Mexico with all of them all too well to be at peace with any of this but all she did was take a deep breath and smile like it didn’t matter before hooking her arm into Stiles’ and marching into the bar.

There were hearts with Christmas lights on the wall, lighting up like sacred hearts. It made her uneasy and she couldn’t help but feel drawn to it. Lydia cocked her head and stared and the white lights until the red started running down one of the hearts and she frowned, watching it, sure that it would drip down the wall.

Stiles put his hand on her shoulder.

“Lydia,” he called and she blinked a couple times before looking at him and forcing herself to keep smiling. Stiles knew something was amiss and so he waited for her to nod before continuing. “Beer?”

She nodded and glanced at the lights. She knew that feeling.

They drank beer at first and, despite knowing better, they decided to move to tequila after a couple more beers. It was hardly a partying mood as it was with most of the people in the bar, but it became easier and easier to pretend as the drinks kept pouring.

Lydia heard people speaking in English and Spanish behind her and around her and she looking over her shoulder. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears but she didn't feel drunk. It was a trap easy to fall into and it was best to not overplay their luck. She looked over her shoulder again; the anxiety refused to leave her.

Lydia looked at the lights again while she drank hers. She never liked beer.

They drank their shots of tequila and it burned down her throat. It distracted her from the throbbing on her ears. She wondered if the alcohol would make their grief pour out of them like undesirable truths, disgusting like vomit. They drank more; Lydia uneasiness grew.

Lydia raised the glass to her lips and frowned, turning back to look at the people who entered the bar. Stiles touched her arm and called her name, sounding like a gunshot that made her flinch away from him. He stayed there, watching her while she recovered and tried to save face.

 “Scott was shot,” she blurted out without meaning to. They stared at each other, not knowing what to do with that warning that came too late to be of any use and that now was just a reminder of the ghosts they were trying to leave behind. "I think I'm drunker than I thought," she chuckled, putting the glass down on the counter and standing up to fix her clothes. She looked away and then back at Stiles who was still watching her.

The silence was haunting; she didn’t want to hear what it could tell her.

Stiles suddenly laughed and leaned in, surprising Lydia with a kiss. He kissed her with closed lips, keeping his eyes opened and just like she did herself. It wasn't romantic at all but it served as a much-needed distraction.

“I’m bragging to Peter that I got a kiss that tasted like tacos and tequila,” Stiles laughed. Lydia glared at him and he had the decency to look apologetic. “He’s trying to get us a car. Let’s drink for all the fallen ones and lets then puke on Peter’s shoes.”

Lydia forced a smile and nodded, knowing that neither of them wanted to address their loses right there and then. She didn’t like the bar and she didn’t like tequila, but there was something in this place that was meant for her to learn and the gunshots she could hear could end up saving their lives even if it was too late for Scott.

She could’ve gone her whole life without knowing Scott had been shot before dying even if one day she would like to know what happened to Beacon Hills. One day, they would have to talk but not right now, not with half unwelcome truths being forced out of them like this.

So, they drank and drank until laughing came easily. The fear came easily, too.

Stiles had just come back from the bathroom when Lydia reached out for his arm, clutching at him as if he had been threatened and she was afraid for his life. He recognized the empty look of her powers and he waited for her to come back from her fugue.

Lydia came back to herself gasping for air and she looked around the bar like she hadn’t been there with Stiles all night long.

“We have to go,” she told him, letting go of his arm. When he didn’t move to close their tab so they could actually go, she added: “Now.”

Stiles reached out for her, grabbing her wrist firmly and locking eyes with her.

“Tell me what it is.”

“We need to go back now.”

“To Beacon Hills?” he asked, frowning. He would not go back, not anymore.

“No,” Lydia said, exasperated, checking her phone and reading Peter’s updates about his errands. The last one was about his choice in flavor for the paleta he ate. “To Peter.”

Stiles watched her for a few more seconds before nodding. He could understand that Lydia didn’t want to let anyone else die, not when their group was already so small. They would go back for Peter and they would keep him safe. He reached out for the shot he had left unattended on the counter before going to the bathroom and drank it all at once before going to pay for their drinks. For all they had drunk, they managed to not tell the bartender they had a werewolf to save. They were surprisingly well behaved. That in itself was hilarious and for all that Stiles found it funny and tried to tell it to their driver, Lydia kept holding Stiles’ arm.

Stiles felt drunker than he had felt before but maybe it was because he had sat down and closed his eyes for a few moments during the ride. Reading Peter’s texts seemed to make Lydia worry more about him and Stiles didn’t want to consider the possibility of her concern feeding his state of drunkness.

When they arrived, Lydia left him to sort out the fare and stumbled out of the car to hurry to their room. Stiles followed slowly behind, feeling his stomach turn. He blamed the tacos; it was probably Scott’s way to haunt him. He laughed and almost puked which made him walk faster and pass by Lydia holding onto Peter and aiming for clarity through booze and grief as she tried to explain the situation to him.

“Drive us away. They are coming for us,” she let go of his right arm, leaning more heavily into him as she hit her own chest with her indicator finger. “A shot right here.”

Peter held the banshee and made sure she didn’t fall as he listened. Lydia’s premonitions were not to be taken lightly even when she was drunk and confused. He guided her into the car he got them – a used, but fairly recent beetle model – and helped her into the front seat while she put together a litany of “pleases” that led nowhere.

“Stay here,” he told her but it was unnecessary as she was already resting her head on the seat and closing her eyes. Peter closed the door and jogged to their shared room, hearing and smelling before he even arrived into the room that Stiles was puking.

“We have to go,” the werewolf informed him anyway but there was no reply. Peter felt his heart racing because of Lydia’s warning; hunters were probably coming after them and if that was the case, they had been spotted by Calaveras. “Stiles.”

He started stuffing their things into few bags they had, mixing their clothes and belonging to be sorted out later when they were safe. He stopped by the bathroom to find Stiles kneeling by the toilet with his face resting on the seat.

“I killed them all,” Stiles said very softly with his eyes closed and Peter just stood there, caught between fear and the urge to know more. He hesitated; he had no comfort to offer them and they had to go.

“Will you puke again?” he asked instead of saying anything else.

Stiles tried to shake his head but decided against it, reaching out and flushing the toilet. Peter made a face at the smell.

“Lydia says we have to go, so we are going,” he offered Stiles a hand and after a moment of hesitation, Stiles took it.

Stiles let Peter take care of everything. It wasn’t a wise decision, but it was their safest bet in this situation. He crawled on the backseat with his own pillow and tried to get comfortable while Peter moved around the car, getting their things and paying their bills, pushing beverages and a bag of what Stiles assumed to be food because it made his stomach turn again - and he swore to never eat tacos again in his life - on the back with with a handbag. He felt uncomfortable and cold. Lydia was passed out on the front seat. Stiles watched the buildings and streetlights as they drove away from Tijuana.

The road grew boring and he grew bored but sleep didn’t come. He stayed still and pretended to rest while Peter drove. The werewolf looked tense and Stiles would find it funny if it wasn’t a little sad the way Peter kept looking over his shoulder and watching every car that passed them too slowly.

Lydia woke up when they stopped at a gas station in Sonoyta. The sun was beginning to rise. Stiles reached out and held a bottle of water to her which she thanked him for with a small but honest smile. He had taken off his shoes and had his feet on the car window. Peter was outside paying for gas.

“Where are we?” she asked after drinking her water.

“Some border place,” Stiles answered. “Peter is freaking out. I think he saw some hunters.”

Lydia passed the bottle back to Stiles who put it with the others. She tried to get comfortable in the passenger seat; her neck was cramping. She was tired.

Peter came back to the car and smirked at them. “Too much noise?” he asked and started the car.

“Leaving already? I hoped we could get some pictures, get the real tourist experience out of this one,” Stiles complained while checking his phone just for the habit.

Lydia closed her eyes again, the brightness of the rising sun was bothering her. “I think I got some sunglasses,” she commented and held her hand back for Stiles to hand them to her.

“Peter made a mess packing,” Stiles informed her. “I vote that Peter should never be in charge of packing ever again.”

“I could neatly fold everything or we could get shot. I made a minute decision and I stand by it.”

Stiles groaned as he sat up to look through the bags in the front of the car, trying to find her sunglasses. “I found mine, you can wear them until next stop when the pet werewolf will do the courtesy of sorting the items and buying refreshments that aren’t room temperature,” he told Lydia as he handed her the item and Peter rolled his eyes. “Any idea when that would be?”

“A couple hours from now,” Peter said. “When we are away from the border. Get some sleep.”

Stiles snorted. He’d love to get some sleep and get rid of the pounding headache growing behind his eyes. It was hard. Everything was hard now. He regretted saying anything to Peter; he was ashamed.

He reached out for a bottle of water and finished it before lying down again. Lydia was breathing softly, lulled back to sleep by the hangover and the drive.

“I heard there is an ostrich farm somewhere around here. Can’t miss that,” Stiles told Peter and he could swear Peter almost smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading so far! also thank you for the patience!
> 
> this is story is very dear to me and i have all the intention to see it through ;-; it just takes more time that i imagined

**Author's Note:**

> the title of the fic comes from the song to binge by gorillaz
> 
> thank you for reading!!


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